The Call
Two old aunts
After many decades were called
To raise an orphaned nephew
Angels left behind but could not tame
Into holiness; he was empty,
So they feasted him
On their sacrificing.
When he needed gates,
They petitioned a builder
For a small house; they didn’t own
A down payment. Their prayers
And tears turned into ink
On the contract accepted by the bank.
Their new house had a cupboard
Stuffed with wheat and honey,
Faucets opened rivers in dry places.
Their gabled roof gladdened
In the peals of a church —
Steeple bells shook the window panes
Every time angels passed
Their choirboy nephew put on
A starched cassock, cinctured with
A red sash, fringe dangling
To the floor.
At Christ’s Holy Supper
A mist of golden chimes
Circled the bread and wine,
An abundance of radiance
Gathered in every pewed soul.
Across town, foul breaths from the tavern
Got caught in the telephone poles
But no one was there to answer their call
Home.
Philip C. Kolin
